Hungover. Please send greasy food. October 31, 2007

Oh fuck. I am so hungover that I’m actually, genuinely amazed by my ability to type sentences right now that do not look like this: lskdjf alkjdfi iw lkwje papoi.

It’s pure coincidence that after yesterday’s post, I went out and acted like my 22 year old self. No really. I swear. COINCIDENCE.

Why do I crave McDonald’s when I’m hung over? I mean, I know why, my body is all: GIVE ME GREASE, WOMAN! But why specifically McDonald’s? I don’t even like McDonald’s. I’d much rather have Wendy’s if forced to consume fast food. But no. Apparently my inner alcoholic? Big McDonald’s fan.

Anyway. Last night started out innocently enough: dinner and drinks at a Mexican restaurant with a few friends. There were frozen margaritas, there was a bowl of chips that was never empty, there were even more margaritas. Too many to count, in fact.

And then before I knew it, we were on the Lower East Side, dancing.

For you non-New Yorkers: the LES is full of hipsters. You know, asymmetrical haircuts, aversion to showers, an 80’s sensibility when it comes to attire. It’s the type of place where it’s hard to tell who is in Halloween costumes and who is not. I mean, there were women very closely emulating Amy Winehouse (down to the beehive!) but I don’t think they were dressed up.

So there I was, dancing, minding my own business, when I proceeded to get picked up by a rather cute, non-hipster guy.

This is notable for one reason: I have not gotten picked up since I got engaged. In June. The ring? The ring is like kryptonite to men. I mean, men love a challenge but they don’t so much love an engaged challenge.

Really, being left alone is fine, but I’m not going to lie, it was nice to get some validation that I didn’t turn into an ugly troll once the ring got placed on my finger. Score!

I arrived home loud, drunk and binging on candy corn at 2am. M was a bit quiet (after asking me the obligatory “are you going to puke?” because, yes, I am a puker and I’m not proud).

I asked (and asked, and asked - god I’m annoying when I’m drunk) what was wrong with him. He finally caved and said, “I just missed you. That’s all.”

And there was this look on his face that just damn near broke my damn heart.

I mean, it felt really fucking good to dance (not on a table, but hey) and drink without thinking (though today I am doing a lot of thinking about what an IDIOT I was to drink so much) but coming home to him, to someone who missed me? So amazing.

It’s as if the universe read my post from yesterday and was all “that fucking idiot doesn’t know how good she has it. Let’s show her what she thinks she’s ‘missing.’” And ok, fine, UNIVERSE YOU WIN.

Now please excuse me as I crawl under my desk in the fetal position, where I will remain until 7pm.

All along. October 29, 2007

Confession: I never thought I’d be married before thirty.

In fact, my idol when I was younger was my mother’s good friend Celia, a kick-ass forty-something litigator with an apartment overlooking Central Park and a string of men practically groveling to marry her.

I thought I wanted Celia’s life: the Big City, the Big Career, the Big Rock she bought for herself and wore on her right hand, the Big Apartment, the Big Bank Account, the Big Social Life.

When I first moved to New York, that’s what it was about. It was about moving up the ladder in the entertainment industry, about dark corners in small bars with strange men, about working my ass off and partying just as hard, about short skirts and high heels and numbers written on napkins stuffed into my clutch. Right next to the condoms.

I wasn’t a slut but I wasn’t exactly discerning either. When you’re not on the hunt for a husband, dating takes on a whole new spin. It becomes about who can give you the best time, not who will raise your children to be upstanding citizens.

M, of course, changed everything. I mean everything. It was like I was viewing the world through a kaleidoscope of hedonism and then he gently took the kaleidoscope away and suddenly everything was clear. And suddenly the hedonism? It didn’t look so pretty.

It’s hard now, sometimes, to continue to define myself as someone who is engaged, who is in a serious relationship as opposed to defining myself as the ambitious hot shot who danced on bars until 4am.

It wasn’t until my relationship with M that I became the Girl With a Stack of Hidden Wedding Magazines. Also, the Girl Who Would Rather Cuddle and Watch a Movie Than Go Out on Saturday Night. I can’t help but think that the Clink of a few years ago would roll her eyes and say, “so, you’ve become one of them. How pathetic.” Them being, of course, people in relationships.

She would, however, be very proud of how far I’ve come in my career. So suck it, Clink of a few years ago.

This past weekend I met up with a friend from the Old Days, a friend who still looks at New York as her own personal playground. A friend whose misadventures in dating had me open-mouthed and wide-eyed over brunch. A friend who still inhabits the universe that we used to inhabit together, before I departed for Relationshipville.

There is no keeping a foot in each world. I tried, for a bit. It’s damn near impossible.

Like I said, M changed everything. M made me want to be a better person. M made me want to be a wife. I look at him and I see a future quite unlike Celia’s. I see a lovely suburban home and adored children and an all-around wonderful existence that does not include dating a few men at a time and going out five nights a week, waking up hungover and unable to remember half of the night. I see happiness. Hell, I see a Mommyblog.

Sometimes I get jealous that M met me at 32, after he had gotten a whole lot of living out of his system. I met him at 23 and was a bit blindsided at how quickly my world took a turn for the domesticated. I actually think (caution: random logic at work here) that part of my jealousy issues stem from that. I was thrust from a world where I didn’t trust men as far as I could throw them (but damn, they were fun to be with) into a world where I was asked to trust someone completely, with my fucking heart. Conclusion: not easy.

I still miss my old self. I even thought of pulling out some of my old clothes and putting on red lipstick and going as 22-year-old Clink for Halloween. She was fucking fun and carefree and uninhibited and unconcerned about anything other than the moment. Right now, I tend to live in the future and go to bed at 11pm, even on weekends; planning a wedding will do that to you.

I miss her, and I’m glad I was her for a time. But, for the most part, I’m glad that time has passed.

“Who knew?” My friend said to me Sunday afternoon, as we sipped wine at noon (some old habits die hard). “Who knew that what you have now is really what you didn’t know that you wanted all along?”

Truer words have never been spoken.

Write first, think later. October 28, 2007

It’s Sunday night and I’m trying to tune out the World Series, especially because I have to go to Boston next week for business and Boston - for a Yankee fan - will be unbearable if and when the Red Sox clinch.

(Tangent: there is, however, a restaurant called Clink (!) in Boston, so, really, Boston and I, we’ll be okay.)

Thursday’s post felt good. You know, I initially wrote it a few days after it actually happened but it languished in my drafts folder for almost a month before I was ballsy enough to post it.

That sounds dramatic. It’s just a post, right?

It used to be, back when I wrote first, thought second.

I don’t know when that changed.

I went through my archives this weekend, mainly to do some cleaning up (five people used to read this blog, two of whom I eventually met in real life and thus I was much more liberal with certain details). I ended up both creating a Favorites tab and being a little bit shocked at my honesty (hi, I’m Clink and I used to have pregnancy scares slash not eat slash ONCE GOT MY PERIOD ALL OVER M’S BOXERS and wow, um, he still wants to marry me?).

I miss that. It’s not that I haven’t been honest lately - I’ve just censored myself a bit. The “bad” or the “not so pretty” has gone unwritten or unposted. I’ve made up the difference with wedding posts (another tab, created this weekend, brought to you by Spare Time and Lots of It) and “what dress should I buy?” posts, when, really, I was dying to get some things off my chest.

Things like, um, the world doesn’t rain a constant parade of sunshine and fairy dust on you when you get engaged. Life is still hard, relationships are still hard, living together is HARD, balance is perhaps hardest of all.

I’m not as insane as I used to be, I don’t think. Mainly because of this blog, because of this outlet, because of the support that has come via Such Great Heights. So why did I stop? When I’m feeling insane, why wouldn’t I write about it? It’s pretty obvious that writing about it? Helps.

I used to not care about being judged. I mean, the harsh comments and the harsh emails hurt then and they hurt now (and it kills me to type that because knowledge of that creates even more power in the hands of the anonymous) but I know I’m going to rub some people the wrong way and I have to be okay with that. The like me! Like me! Like me! aspect of my personality has never been my favorite trait and it really needs to just shut the hell up. I mean, I don’t necessarily like every person behind every blog that I read and there’s no Blog Constitution out there saying that I have to. The same goes for people who read my blog - they don’t have to like me. Hell, for all I know, the 98% of you who don’t comment might just come here to make yourselves feel better because whew, at least I’m not as crazy as her.

So more honesty, is the point of this long-winded exercise in distraction (Dear Colorado, Please score. Love, Clink). Less self-censorship. Less fearing what anyone thinks. Less diluting myself into someone whose life revolves around pretty dresses and her pretty wedding. There’s that part of me, sure, but there’s also the part of me that crawled into bed at 6pm on Friday night, pulled the covers over my head and sobbed for two hours, for no reason and every reason at all.

I’m that girl too.

I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well. October 25, 2007

I have a confession: M and I aren’t perfect.
 
Perfect for each other, yes.
 
Perfect? Absolutely not. 
 
I’ve stopped writing about the difficult times. Mainly because they’re few and far between but also because…Well, I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Because I’m afraid of being judged? Because I’m afraid to share more now that I’m less anonymous? Because now that we’re getting married, I’m afraid that every tiny argument can be seen as a chink in the armor of us? 
 
It was Sunday, the day before my birthday. I woke up with a mood as grey as the sky. Something about twenty-six really got under my skin. I had one day left as a twenty-five year old and I was apparently going to spend it snapping at M and sulking and in general being a not-so-pleasant person to be around. 
 
M, bless him, tried his best. He tried to make me laugh. Failing that, he tried to get me to talk. Failing that, he got a bit frustrated. He’s human. And I had been pushing his buttons all day, dragging him down into my black hole of a bad mood. Misery does love company, yes, but even more than that, misery loves a good fight.
 
I won’t go into the details – that’s between the two of us  – but it escalated. Escalated to the point that I did something I’ve never done: I grabbed my stuff and bolted out of our apartment, letting the door slam behind me, not bothering to lock it.
 
In New York, you can be alone both nowhere and everywhere.
 
I cried once in London, while walking down the high street. It was homesickness, if I remember correctly. Three people stopped me to ask me if I was okay. By the time I got back to my flat, I was smiling. London cared, London took care of me. 
 
New York could give a shit. 
 
I walked to the fountain at Columbus Circle, one of the most underrated spots in the city - especially at night - and took a seat between a disoriented bum and a beautiful teenager sketching evening gowns.
 
I was iPod-less and phone-less and money-less and crying, wiping the snot onto the sleeve of my red hoodie, sitting knees to chest. Suddenly embarrassed, suddenly very sorry, suddenly feeling very stupid and yet still too full of pride to go back. I chided myself for letting my emotions get the best of me, for not being rational, for being such a bitch. A foul-tempered bitch.
 
I fight like my mother and my sister. We’re feisty, we’re Greek, we go for the jugular. If we’re angry - no matter if it’s justified - we’ll tell you everything you don’t want to hear about yourself. We’ll spot your weakness and go in for the kill. This is an attribute that is going to make my sister a stellar divorce attorney in just a few years. However, it’s not something I’m proud of and I definitely wasn’t proud that day, sitting in front of the fountain, mulling over the things I had said.
 
I saw Cameron Diaz first, walking with an actor I recognized from Alias (IMDB says: Bradley Cooper). I welcomed the distraction that came with passing judgment (skinny but not too, a bit of a flat ass, skin looked fine, overall very pretty).
 
Then I noticed a familiar face crossing the street towards the fountain – the stubble, the mess of brown hair, the black jacket with the collar, the one I love. The ice in my veins – ice I had worked so hard all day at keeping in place – melted.
 
He came and found me.
 
He sat down next to me. We just let each other be for a short while, sitting in complete silence, facing forward. The water drowned out the rest of the city, which is the reason the fountain is my favorite place to think. You can’t do anything but.
 
I could be remembering it wrong, but we reached for each other’s hand at almost the same time.
 
Somehow, some way we got from there to a perfect pre-birthday dinner. A perfect after-dinner. A perfect after-after-dinner. A perfect actual birthday. We built back up again after a not-so-pretty crumble.
 
It’s why I’m marrying him.
 
Because we’ll fight - hopefully not often, but it’ll happen. In fact, I’m wary of couples that don’t ever fight, not even just a bit. There are times when the connection, or the communication, they’re just not going to be perfect. There are times when things aren’t going to be easy.
 
But we’ll always find a way back to each other, M and I. And that’s what makes me believe in us, with ever fiber of my being.
 

A, B, C… October 24, 2007

Admiring: My ring. It’s been four months and one would think I’d have gotten use to it by now, kind of like one gets used to a new hair color or a new piercing, but one would be wrong. My ring and I are still in lust.
 

Beating myself up about: Being a hormonal, emotional lunatic last night and thus only getting a few hours of sleep and thus being all puffy-eyed today and hi, period? HATE.
 
Crying over: Absolutely nothing. See above.
 
Daydreaming about: Sunny, crisp fall weather. Which I shouldn’t actually have to daydream about in LATE OCTOBER. This is kind of pathetic. Summer weather, begone!
 
Excited because: I have a few business trips coming up.
 
Frustrated because: One of those business trips was going to be to Atlanta, and I got all excited, because I have good friends in Atlanta! Good friends who I never see! One of whom has a delicious baby! And then the Atlanta trip got cancelled.
 
Grumpy because: I bought Hershey’s Kisses yesterday afternoon, ate a couple, and then threw the bag out because I “didn’t want them around.” Except now? I kind of want them around.
 
Hate-filled and seething over: My sister’s boyfriend needs to grow up. That is all.
 
Indignant because: My assistant is going to Vietnam and Thailand for a month. She’s 22! And just graduated college! And this is her first job! And already, a vacation! For a month!
 
Just shoot me now because: This week is going to be another doozy. Ass, meet desk chair. Desk chair, meet ass. Get comfortable.
 
Kidding myself regarding: The tiny pair of jeans my sister gave me because they’re too big for her now. One of these days, size four skinny jeans. One of these days.
 
Listening to: Potential first dance songs. In the running? “Green Eyes” or “Kingdom Come,” by Coldplay. “All I Want is You” by U2. “Brighter Than Sunshine” by Aqualung. (Oh! And I heard “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service on the way to work this morning, which made me all warm thinking about my blog.)
 
Mooning over: The rehearsal dinner dress finally arrived and it is hanging in my closet and lord, it is lovely.
 
Need: A massage. Another cup of coffee. A million dollars.
 
Obsessing over: Blake Lively. And that’s all I’ll say about that. (Not a word, Peter.)
 
Praying: That M makes it to and from Boston to pick up his World Series tickets safely.
 
Questioning: The fact that I am wearing my rain boot-wellie type things and didn’t bring another pair of shoes to change into.
 
Reading: Wedding magazines. I mean, duh.
 
Singing: “Let the raaaaaaaaaaaain fall, I don’t care, I’m yours and suddenly you’re miiiiiiiiine….and it’s brighter than sunshiiiiiiiiiiine.”
 
Trying: Not to cry, picturing M and I dancing.
 
Unnerved by: How I almost got run over on the way to work today. I gave someone the finger for, like, the third time in my life.
 
Valentiney Update: My valentine is freaking awesome.
 
Wondering: How I’m going to be on the flight with my assistant. I mean, I’m her boss, I can’t be a sobbing, freaking-out mess when we fly together.
 
X-rated action: All good there. Thanks.
 
Yawning over: Only Wednesday? Really?
 
Zoinks: Yeah. Exactly.  

Things that keep me up at night. October 23, 2007

Did I tell you that the wedding planning is back in full force? Well, the wedding planning is back in full force.

On a typical evening in apartment 17G, you can find me sitting indian style in sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun, laptop in front of me, surrounded by wedding magazines and wedding planning checklists and a few cans of Diet Coke (ok, FINE, and also a container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream) and things I’ve jotted down on napkins because a thought came to me in the middle of dinner at a restaurant and “CANNOT FORGET, SCHEDULE TASTING.”

In the words of my boss, to use a phrase borrowed from the industry in which we work, I’m “producing the hell out of this wedding.”

Which is true, I am. But there are also some roadblocks that keep me up at night. Yes, KEEP ME UP AT NIGHT because hi, I’m crazy and you should know that already if you’ve, like, ever read my blog before.

Here’s what has been on my mind:

The Plus-One Dilemma: In an ideal world, M and I would be filthy rich. And part of what would come with being filthy rich (in addition to, you know, manservants at our disposal and a built-in jacuzzi tub right next to our bed because why not?) would be that we’d be able to invite every one of our guests of the ’single’ variety with a date.

Except, reality is quite different and therefore the Plus-One Dilemma is very real. I guess the general rule of thumb is that if they’re in a serious relationship, or if they’re coming from out of town, or if they won’t know anyone at the wedding, they should be invited with a guest. This is probably the general guideline we’re going to follow, but I still feel a bit guilty.

But then again, do I really want to pay $250 for Mr. Random One Night Stand, guest of my very single girlfriend, to eat, drink and be merry at my wedding, never to be seen again? No. Don’t want that either.

The Pictures Before Dilemma: If you had asked me, say, a year ago whether or not I’d allow M to see me before I actually walked down the aisle, I probably would’ve given you a quizzical look and said “of course he’s not going to see me before we walk down the aisle! I may not be the most traditional girl in the world, but dude, come on.”

Oh, how times have changed. M and I have reached a tentative decision to take pictures together before the ceremony. The truth is, we want a lot of New York-y type shots: Central Park, the roof of our apartment building, maybe even something cheeky at a subway entrance. However, we’re getting married in Chelsea and the reception is in Tribeca and there’s just no way we can get up to Central Park and get all the shots that we want before the cocktail hour is over.

Plus, um, we sort of want to be at the cocktail hour! Me because I want to mingle with my guests and M because “the best food is going to be at the cocktail hour!” (By “best food,” he means the cheeseburger sliders and pigs-in-a-blanket and mini-grilled cheese that I have allowed him to add to the cocktail hour menu.)

I’m not thrilled about M seeing me before I walk down the aisle but I figure that either way we’ll have “that moment” - the me-in-white-dress-with-tears-in-my-eyes, him-with-a-look-of-shock-and-awe-on-his-face moment. It may just be in Central Park, not in the church.

The Bridesmaids Gifts Dilemma: I want to do something nice. Something original. Something not “jewelry to wear with their dresses, that they may-or-may-not like.”

When I was a bridesmaid, I actually would’ve preferred if the bride had just paid for our hair/nails instead of giving us a gift that I don’t even remember today, 2 years later.

Believe it or not, I spend a ton of my time researching gifts for my bridesmaids when I really should be, oh, RESEARCHING DRESSES (still don’t have one; still haven’t even gone to look; am pathetic).

The Platinum Wedding October 21, 2007

I woke up this morning much less hungover than I thought I’d be; a welcome surprise.

I tried poking M, like I usually do, because if I’m up then shouldn’t he be up? Isn’t that how this love thing works?

Poke, poke, kiss on the ear, another poke. Nothing. He didn’t even budge - clearly depleted from his Best Man duties - so I grabbed my cell phone, curled up on the couch in the living room and called my mom.

Because, fuck, I needed to talk to someone about the Platinum Wedding.

By the time my father and I exchanged some witty banter, conducted a brief analysis of the Giants vs. the 49ers and the phone was passed to my mom, the tears came.

Not full-on sobs; just a few rogue droplets running down my cheek.

“How was the wedding?”

“Mom. I don’t want my wedding to be anything like that.“

“Uh oh.”

“There was no…,” for lack of better words, “heart. There was no soul. I mean, they did everything right, there was definitely a ‘wow’ factor, but it just felt…empty.”

“Was it really that bad?”

“Mom, I didn’t cry. Me. At a wedding. No crying.”

Which is true. I didn’t shed a tear and hi, I’m Clink, and I cried at the ROCK OF LOVE SEASON FINALE.

I just wasn’t…moved. It was all very pretty, it was all clearly very well-planned, down to the very last detail, it was all very well-coordinated. But it was all very…lacking in intimacy.

The best wedding I’ve ever been to was also the smallest - 100 guests, lots of impromptu toasts, plenty of tears, a packed dance floor. I remember not wanting the evening to end, I remember excitedly rehashing it with my family and M the next morning at breakfast. It was a wedding that brought people together, ushered all of the guests into the inner sanctum of love between the bride and the groom. We were all glowing, we were all thrilled to be there, no one even noticed or cared about the food or the time or who was wearing what.

The Platinum Wedding was the opposite - 500 guests, exactly two toasts (one given by M), no tears (despite the presumptuous packets of tissues handed out at the ceremony), a half-empty dance floor.

Sure, there were the “platinum touches” - though, to be honest, I’m hesitant to give details because who knows if one of my readers was there? I’m so paranoid, but the truth is the bride and groom would undoubtedly be hurt and angry if they found out that I found their wedding to be empty.

Because it wasn’t empty for them, clearly. It’s what they wanted - they meticulously planned everything.

I don’t know. I feel guilty. I wish this was a fun, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED post but, truly, M and I were a bit morose as we drove back into Manhattan last night, just like all of M’s friends were a bit morose at the end of the evening, when we were all sitting at the table, wondering whether it was appropriate for us to leave.

We just didn’t have a great time. There wasn’t that invisible force that compels you to dance, to mingle, to bask in the joy of of the couple. Maybe we were all just in food comas.

When you’re in the middle of planning a wedding, it’s hard to attend a wedding and not compare. I tried - I really did - just to enjoy myself and not pass judgment, but it was near-impossible.

All I can take away from the event is what I told my mother - “I’m sure it was fine for them, but I want mine to be so, so different.”

***

On a related note, what is with people not showing up at the ceremony? Is this something that’s acceptable nowadays? Did I miss the memo?

Because there were only about 100 people at the ceremony - the church was damn near half empty. But there were 500 people at the reception.

That, to me, reeks of “we didn’t feel like sitting through the boring ‘in sickness and in health’ part, but yeah, we’ll show up for the free booze and food.”

It really bothered me.

***

Also: don’t ever get in a car with me. Seriously, if we ever meet in real life and I offer to drive (Molly, are you paying attention?) please just say no.

I had to drive by myself to the church yesterday afternoon because M was in the limo and I almost got in about five accidents, mainly because I kept forgetting that driving takes so much concentration. Also, I ran a red light. Just blatantly RAN A RED LIGHT. Apparently, traffic signals are nothing but mere suggestions in the Clink School of Driving.

Thank god I live in Manhattan.

So lucky. October 18, 2007

 

I know that this probably isn’t going to help my unofficial “I’m not materialistic! No, I swear!” campaign but coming home to the above tonight was a pretty damn awesome surprise. Especially after a very long, very stressful day.

It’s less about how those boxes are filled with fine china and more about the fact that my extended family never ceases to amaze me with their love and generosity.

***

Moving on. Things You Will Never Hear Me Say: Wedding Edition

“Actually, I think I really want a winter wedding. Like, in January. When it’s freezing outside. Hopefully it will snow.”

“You want to wear a pink tux, M? Fine with me.”

“I hope I don’t lose a POUND before the wedding!”

“I really wish my mom had more opinions. God, she is no help at all.“

“Our wedding website isn’t really all that great. I didn’t put much thought into it.”

“No candid photos. I want everything to be posed.”

“Oh, I’ll be totally fine if it rains. Rain is good luck!”

“Cry? When my dad walks me down the aisle? Why would I do that?”

“I want an updo.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty cool that we’re going to Hawaii for two weeks. I mean, whatever. I’m not really all that excited.”

“I think that the wedding is going to be pretty tame. I mean, my family isn’t really fun-loving at all.”

“The tasting is going to suck. I hope we can get it over with very quickly.”

“I’m not really sure if I should be marrying M.”

And one non-wedding thing you will never hear me say: “I’m not going to miss Joe Torre at all. It’s not like he was my third grandfather or anything.”

The Platinum Wedding Approaches. October 17, 2007

So, in sum, after reading amazing comment after amazing comment: I’m not a freak. You’re not a freak either. None of us are freaks.

We all just have unique relationships with food. And that is okay.

I’m okay with the fact that a friend and I just sat on my couch in front of the TV and inhaled a scallion pancake, beef lo mein and General Tso’s chicken. Also, two Fig Newtons. Because I know that tomorrow? Tomorrow I’m barely going to have time to eat. Maybe I do have balance after all.

I’m watching Gossip Girl (and girl crushing on Blake Lively because could she be any cuter? And sunny-y? I kind of wish she and I could be bff forevah omg and go shopping and she could show me where she buys those awesome clothes and how she gets her hair to be so…big and sexy. What’s that? She’s not real? Oh hush.)

Kickin’ it alone tonight seeing as M is currently at the rehearsal dinner of the Platinum Wedding of the Century though, really, it isn’t very Platinum to have a rehearsal dinner on a Wednesday (when cough the fiancee of one of the groomsmen can’t make it because she can’t leave work early the evening before a huge network meeting cough).

Oh, the Platinum Wedding. It’s this Saturday and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it partly for the gossip it’s going to generate.

The latest rumor is that the bride has three wedding dresses: one for the ceremony, one for the reception and one for the after party.

Yes, there is an after party. They will apparently be serving breakfast at 12am and then open a hot chocolate and fresh donut station a 2am.

People, this isn’t a wedding; it’s Disneyworld. And I am bound to gain about ten pounds over the course of less than 12 hours.

I don’t mean to be bitchy about it; I’m more curious than anything. Curious about what a 500 person, Platinum Wedding is actually like because lord knows I’ve never been to one.

The only thing I’m sure of right now is what I’ll be wearing (Dress #5! Gold accessories! Sexy M in a tux on my arm!). Other than that, anything goes. Including an actual orchestra instead of a band. No, seriously.

I’m sure it’s going to be an in-person “what Clink does and doesn’t want at her own wedding” session. Bonus!

First off? Do not want: three dresses. One (the one I haven’t even FOUND YET because hi, lazy and apprehensive) is more than enough for me, thankyouverymuch.

Any of you ever been to a Platinum Wedding? Will I have to like, curtsy?

Update: Just spoke with M; he’s on his way back into Manhattan. Was informed by him that I am the recipient of a gift from the bride. A gift in a Tiffany box. I am not in the wedding, y’all. I am not even remotely close to the bride in terms of friendship. I am merely engaged to her soon-to-be-husband’s best man. Why the hell did I get a gift? Slash omigod, I am SO curious as to what it is.

Update II: So, it was a beautiful Tiffany silver picture frame of a photo of M and I from the soon-to-be-married couple’s engagement party last year. So thoughtful and beautiful. She also sent me another box with various things inside - a tote bag monogrammed with “Bride” on it, a photo album, another frame, all in chocolate brown and pink - my wedding colors. So awesome. But, um, I don’t know if I should actually write about how I’m thrilled over my surprise gifts because that will probably make me sound even more materialistic, right Lisa from the comments?

Unbalanced. October 16, 2007

I tend to live in extremes; I don’t think I’ve ever really grasped the concept of moderation:
 
I’m either at the gym for two hours a day, everyday or I don’t go at all for weeks.
 
I either turn casual “shopping” into a full-blown “spree” or I don’t purchase anything.
 
I either heavily restrict my calories to the point that maybe it’s not so healthy or I eat like a five hundred pound trucker at a roadside diner.
 
There’s really no in-between or if there is, it doesn’t last long. I’ve had a resistance to balance for most of my life and that’s something that I am desperately trying to overcome, especially when it relates to my eating habits.
 
Food and I? We have a shitty relationship. I am either in love with food to the point of stuffing myself long after I’m full or food and I go on a bit of a break and I only eat enough of it to live. For example:
 
On a day I’m not eating:
 
Breakfast: A coffee, if that. (Just recently I’ve tried to incorporate a bowl of cereal or oatmeal to get my metabolism going and so that I don’t overeat later. So far, so good.)
 
Lunch: A piece of fruit. A few almonds. Half of a Lara bar if I ate the other half for breakfast. I pull the “I’m too busy for lunch” card out entirely too often.
 
Dinner: A small salad. Or a bowl of cereal. Or a piece of grilled chicken. Sometimes nothing but a Diet Coke.
 
On a day I’m eating entirely too much:
 
Breakfast: Bacon, egg, cheese on a roll. If I start my day out with this, it’s all downhill.
 
Lunch: Pizza. Burrito. Huge-ass sandwich with chips. Something equally unhealthy and gluttonous.
 
Snack: Chocolate or chocolate chip cookies or maybe both. Plus ice cream.
 
Dinner: Usually at a restaurant and usually a pasta of some kind. With bread. Naturally.
 
See? See why I’m a freak? I can’t just eat in-between. It’s either eat a ton because I figure “eh, my day started out with a bacon, egg, and cheese, there’s no use trying to redeem myself” or barely eat. And I’m sick of it.
 
So I’m curious as to what you (yes, you!) eat on a typical day. Tell me how you balance, tell me how often you indulge and how often you restrict, if ever. (Also? The fact that I even feel comfortable asking this? Reason #14,673 that I love blogging. So please don’t ruin it for me and criticize. I have delicate feelings.)
 
Reading your responses will hopefully give me a sense of what’s normal, juxtaposed against what I do, which is not. And hopefully, I can learn a thing or two and food and I can finally reconcile.